“Mother’s Day Reflections”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-19)

Buttered toast for Mom.

With Mother’s Day drawing near on the calendar, I was moved recently to pause and ponder the situation of my own mater, a resident at the Mansfield Place nursing home in Philippi, West Virginia. Her status as a widow and Medicaid client has become familiar enough that the initial shock delivered to our family now seems muted by necessity. We have grown accustomed to what would have been, mere months ago, more worrisome and woeful.

But a lingering moment continues to doggedly haunt my everyday routine. That of spreading some flavorful condiment on a slice of bread. This simple act dependably sends my thoughts into a bittersweet spiral of introspection. A moment where I remember how we arrived at the conditions of today.

In 2009, I was between jobs, without a car, needing surgery on my right knee, and married for the second time. My father, who was a survivor of colon cancer, once again faced the rise of this dreaded affliction. He needed to be hospitalized over days or weeks while battling for his health. Because of my life-in-limbo, I was able to exit Ohio, stay with Mom, and help supervise Dad’s medical care. I drove his Honda minivan back and forth between Barbour County and Ruby Memorial Hospital in Morgantown. A trek of one hour each way.

Mother had already been living from her recliner for a few years, after a knee replacement left her unable to sleep comfortably in a conventional bed. This new habit kept her from traveling much or socializing as she had done before. In a sense, it altered her personality and twisted her concept of time. She often missed church services for the week, something that would never have happened in yonder days. But when questioned about this change, she typically observed that with the arrival of spring, her attendance might resume. She reckoned that only a few weeks had passed since her previous visit to the pews at their local Union Church of Christ.

This period lasted for years, not weeks. But the family found many creative ways to excuse the disconnection from the calendar

During my stay in 2009, I often helped create meals with Mom, as her ability to concentrate on recipes had diminished. A sad loss for everyone as she had a magic touch in the kitchen that came from her heritage as a child of the McCray brood. She often sang to us while preparing food, which was another habit of that group. My own culinary ideas were much less sophisticated, sometimes simply involving a run for Fox’s Pizza Den or Hardee’s sandwiches. But on a particular morning in the summer, I made toast to accompany her Jimmy Dean Breakfast Bowl.

As I brought the dish to her chair, she visually snubbed the crusty bread. After lifting one slice in her fingers, she began to complain. “This isn’t buttered, not all the way, you know. Not from edge to edge. I mean, you could have done better, Rodney. Do you see?”

Her complaint spun my head around. I had never heard Mom speak with such irritation. She had always been the sort to praise God for each blessing, regardless of the warts and blemishes with which it was delivered. A sunny sort of Christian, living in gratitude no matter the grandness of purpose or smallness of a gift.

Feeling a chill, I realized that she actually sounded like a person oddly unfamiliar and strange. I scolded myself for this perception. But the moment would remain long after that day had passed.

My father‘s surgery successfully addressed his immediate needs. He was released to Broaddus Hospital, in Philippi. Then he returned home. I was able to regroup with my own family in Buckeye Country, where I found a used pickup truck and a new job managing the Giant Eagle supermarket in Geneva, near Lake Erie.

Mom continued to hope for her return to services at the church on Union Road.

By 2018, she had been in the easy chair for many years. None of us were quite sure when this relocation had begun, but the trend lasted for at least a decade. Without protest, Dad had adapted to caring for her needs. My sister managed to make outside excursions possible, with a wheelchair, during extended visits. Phone contact with parishioners at church and relatives kept her in touch. Only the closing of their window blinds in the living room sent her mood out of control. It was literally her portal to the outside world. She would often describe things happening in the yard during our conversations-by-wire.

Dad protected her as an act of love.

Yet eventually, no one could reasonably deny the existence of an issue with Mom’s behavior. She became moody, slept erratically, and claimed to see others in the household. At first, I wondered about intruders preying on their frailty and isolation. But after she described seeing her parents on the couch, both of whom were deceased, I realized her perception of reality had been warped by something more powerful than sitting alone in her chair.

Dad was a patient fellow. So his ability to endure with purpose never fizzled. Her took care of his bride until the final hour at home, when his own mobility had been vanquished by age, congestive-heart-failure and arthritis. When my sister visited, early last year, she took charge. With the gentle strength learned from our sire. Dad could no longer care for mother, or himself, or anyone.

“I need 24-hour attention,” he confessed, at last. The admission did not come easily. Even as he left the house, never to return, defiance flowed in his veins. He hoped to get better and sidestep permanent residency in a skilled venue. But that did not happen.

After he passed, in April of 2018, we became legal guardians for our mother. This was when a formal diagnosis was given by Dr. Sanpablo: Senile Dementia. Regardless, Mom seemed to thrive in the community of senior folk, where some were neighbors and friends. The family decided that it was best to keep her in a familiar environment. And this strategy worked well, despite bouts of rowdy behavior, wandering, and confusion associated with her degenerative condition.

Sadly, our mother was not able to reconnect completely with the current world. When I playfully reminded her of being the oldest son in our tribe, named Rodney, she replied that her body had carried a baby with that name. As if it were only some act of coincidence. Her mind did not conceive that the child in her womb and the graying man by her bed were the same person at different points of chronology.

Still, I did not argue, but laughed instead. She knew we were friendly people.

In the week leading up to Mother’s Day, my sister posted a photograph on Facebook from our parents’ 21st wedding anniversary, in 1981. I melted at the sight of Mom, prettily dressed and smiling, with big hair and gorgeous eyes. Her charm and kindness projected powerfully from the image. I wished to see that woman again. To hear her advice, to be soothed by her grace. To share some of her country vittles, like sausage gravy with biscuits.

We are still blessed to have her with us, as this regular day arrives, to celebrate motherhood around the world. And though she may not recognize each of us by name or appearance, in our hearts, the glow of her love remains bright. So we celebrate for ourselves, and for her as well.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama Gwendolyn.

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